Travels in Nihilon

by Alan Sillitoe

  Station platforms, even at home, made her feel that she could not altogether rely on knowing who she was if anything unusual happened to her. They were such long, impersonal, dirty, ugly things, with too many goodbyes, lost hearts, and tears stamped into the concrete paving. The sight of a long empty unfeeling railway platform made her want to throw up her hands and wail. But on this occasion she overcame her urge so successfully, due to her strong character, that she appeared extremely brisk and self-possessed. She was a tall, slim young woman whose chestnut-coloured hair had managed to retain its grooming on the boats and trains she had so far travelled on.

  She looked for the way to the Nihilon customs and passport control, making sure that the indispensable Tonguemaster was clipped unobtrusively on to her handbag. Having carried her three suitcases out of the compartment, she now hoped they would be taken by a porter through to the Grand Express on which she wanted to get a sleeping compartment to Nihilon city.

  A few people made their way along the platform to the passport control office, though none used a porter. She wrote in her notebook: ‘To obtain a porter at the frontier is a near impossibility, and travellers are advised to bring as little luggage as possible.’ She crossed out ‘a near impossibility’ and wrote ‘extremely difficult’, for she saw a tall well-built man wearing a dark uniform coming towards her. ‘Excuse me, madame,’ he said, touching his gold-braided cap, ‘I’m the stationmaster. May I help you?’

  ‘I would like a porter,’ she smiled.

  There are no porters today,’ he said. ‘They’re all across at the hotel waiting to see the Geriatrics charge into action on television. It’s a great day for Nihilon. The old folks are rearing to go at Cronacia, because of the treacherous attack. Unfortunately I have to stay here and keep essential services going.’

  ‘I’ve just come from Cronacia,’ Jaquiline told him, ‘and it’s peaceful there. People are very happy and amiable.’

  The stationmaster looked at her sardonically: ‘You should try telling that to President Nil. It’s difficult for you to understand our situation. Anyway, the incident was in the south, not up here. That’s why it’s peaceful. Otherwise there’d be war here as well, believe me.’ He took a suitcase under his arm, and one in each hand.

  ‘It’s very kind of you,’ she said, following him.

  ‘You’d better get some of our money,’ he told her, a piece of advice he obviously believed in, for he set her cases down before a money-changer’s window. ‘This is a branch of the Nihilon Bank. They don’t change money on the train, except at two hundred to the unit.’

  ‘That’s double the rate,’ she said, opening her handbag. ‘I’ll wait till I get on, then.’

  He shook his head. ‘Don’t. It’s illegal. The currency they give you on the train is forged. You get real ones here.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ she said and, not to be hurried, wrote in her notebook: ‘Travellers are strongly advised to change money on arrival at the Nihilon frontier post, and should on no account attempt to do so on the trains, as such currency as is then given, though twice that of the official rate, is frequently forged.’ She then changed twenty units, for which she unknowingly received two thousand forged klipps, and followed him to the passport and visa control office.

  No one had ever settled the question as to whether a visa was necessary for a visit to Nihilon. At home, Jaquiline had applied for information to the nearest Nihilonian consulate which, by a happy coincidence, was situated in the same building as the offices of the proposed Guide to Nihilon. The following advice-note was returned to her:

  ‘To enter Nihilon a passport provided with a permanent or transitory visa obtainable from any Nihilon consulate is essential. The former is valid for a stay of one year, while the latter does not permit a sojourn at all.’

  In the same envelope was a printed form entitled: ‘Visa Application for Sojourn in Nihilon.’ The first questions were harmless enough, but they later became more personal, posing such queries as to how many children her four grandparents had had, whether they drank or not, and if so, what diseases and divorces there had been for as far back as she could remember. Then the questions ceased to be merely personal. They became shockingly intimate. Jaquiline, almost thirty, but looking younger, had had a good share of experience, but her upbringing had been strict and proper, so that she had controlled her life with such skilful discretion that hardly anyone suspected her of so many adventures. These questions, therefore, prying into the most intimate secrets of her sex life, made her indignant. Forgetting that she had already filled in the harmless part of the form, she tore it into four pieces, put it into an envelope, and posted it back to the Nihilonian consulate. Two days later, an impressive, gold-lettered, fully signed, and exquisitely stamped visa, reeking of perfume, was sent to her free of charge. This she now took from her handbag, and passed, together with her passport, through the small window of the control post, while the stationmaster waited nearby with her luggage. A loudspeaker, halfway down the wall by which she stood, and level with her knees, demanded:

  ‘Why are you coming into Nihilon?’

  ‘To write a guidebook.’

  ‘Do you have any money?’

  ‘Two thousand travellers units.’

  ‘How long do you expect to stay?’

  ‘A month.’

  ‘What about your accommodation?’

  ‘I shall be staying at hotels.’

  ‘Do you have any letters from your prospective employer?’

  ‘I’m not going to work in Nihilon,’ she said, lighting a cigarette. ‘I’m only visiting the country.’

  ‘Oh,’ the loudspeaker sneered. ‘Don’t you like our country? Does nihilism frighten you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ she answered. ‘Perhaps I would even like to live here, but I can’t tell yet.’

  ‘Well, you can’t anyway,’ the man’s voice said superciliously. ‘You’d never get permission. Only Nihilon citizens can live in this country. Unless you have a bank account in Nihilon.’

  ‘I don’t,’ she snapped, tired of this interrogation.

  ‘Then how much money do you have with you?’

  ‘I’ve told you. Two thousand travellers units.’

  ‘You’re lying!’ he cried. ‘Show them to me.’ She took the notes from her wallet, and a hand snatched them away. The stationmaster’s eyes grew large at the sight of such money. She could hear a rustle beyond the window as it was avidly counted. ‘We don’t have to let you in,’ the voice said smugly, pushing her money back with two notes short, which she was unaware of because she didn’t think to check it.

  His words alarmed her, for she had work to do on the guidebook. ‘I have a proper visa. And please hurry or I shall miss my train to Nihilon City.’

  The stationmaster shuffled his feet. ‘I have to go now, miss.’ But she knew that as long as the stationmaster stayed with her the train wouldn’t be able to leave.

  ‘Your visa is no concern of ours,’ said the passport official. ‘None whatsoever.’

  ‘Your consulate abroad gave it to me.’

  He gave a small dry laugh: ‘I’m afraid you were the victim of a hoax. However, if you do want to get into Nihilon I can sell you another visa here.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Three hundred klipps might help.’

  She stamped her foot: ‘That’s robbery.’

  ‘Robbery does not exist in Nihiloh,’ a louder voice said from the speaker. ‘We are all well paid, happy, prosperous, patriotic, sober, and hardworking British – I mean Nihilonian – officials, while you are a foreign whore who has come to disturb the equanimity of our perfect lives. Four hundred klipps, or get back to those Cronacian bastards and see how they rob you.’

  She pushed two hundred across the counter, and her correctly stamped passport was returned to her, though with some grumbling. ‘Come on,’ she said to the station-master ‘or I’ll have to bribe them some more.’

  Just as they were entering the customs hall a strang
led croak came from the passport booth behind, and a scarcely human voice was shouting and whining about her money being forged, which it was, though Jaquiline had no idea they were referring to her, being preoccupied at taking her place in a short queue at the customs desks.

  It looked like a fairly busy market, with travellers and uniformed officials handling goods they had shaken on to the tables, and shouting prices at each other. Now and again someone would hand over money, scoop his things into a case, clip it shut, and walk away sweating and muttering towards the door leading to the train.

  A blue-uniformed customs officer, holding a clipboard which stated in bold black words, as far as Jaquiline could see, that you were forbidden to bring anything at all into the country, leaned across the table and pulled the half-smoked cigarette from her mouth. ‘You’ll have to pay duty on that,’ he said, stubbing it out, and throwing it on to a pair of scales. ‘How do you expect our nation of honest shopkeepers to live if we let you bring cigarettes into our Nihilon?’

  ‘They’re very strict here,’ said the stationmaster. ‘This is one of the worst frontier posts as far as the customs people are concerned. Others are quite easy.’

  She took up her pad and wrote: ‘At the frontier, scenes of great confusion prevail, especially during the so-called customs-house examination. Every case and packet is opened, so that it is inadvisable for ladies to travel alone. She who has no option but to do so will see the most intimate articles of her wardrobe pawed by brutish fingers, and held up to the gaze of other travellers in order that they may leer at them. This they are too ready to do, in the hope that, having fallen in with the customs officer’s perverted sense of humour, they may be spared having to pay duty on their own goods. But one is indeed made to pay, for one is literally robbed of one’s luggage and then made to buy it back again.’ ‘It is a most degrading experience,’ she wrote later, ‘and the female tourist is advised to maintain dignity and patience through her ordeal. This, it must be said, is something of a feat, under the circumstances, for the victim is taken to a room in which her actual person is searched by two poker-faced dragons of Nihilon officialdom. At this stage one may well begin to wonder whether the country is worth visiting at all, but your correspondent had no option except to persevere in her intention to obtain information for the benefit of future travellers. The least that can be said about this infamous procedure is that a cup of coffee was provided after the experience was over, though at a very inflated price.’

  Having parted with another five hundred klipps, whereupon everything was put back into her cases, she followed the broad back of the stationmaster to the waiting train. There was a booth open on the platform at which one could buy tickets to Nihilon City, but she got into a long and acrimonious argument with the woman behind the glass, who tried to insist that she pay for a return instead of a single journey. Jaquiline refused to give in on this point, and after snatching the correct ticket, and throwing down the money, she watched her cases taken towards a suitable compartment. The hooter of the train blew a prolonged and urgent note, unpleasant, she thought, if heard in the distance from some comfortable bed at night, but now giving a feeling of actual relief, because in a short time she would be taken out of these bleak and extortionate frontier sheds.

  The stationmaster climbed over her cases to reach the door of the high carriage, before pulling each one in after him. He told her to wait on the platform while he took them to her compartment. Through the window, a few yards along the train, she saw his rather long limbs placing her cases respectfully on the racks. It would be difficult to climb those steel steps unaided, so she waited for him to come back and assist her. He had shown such magnificent kindness in this barbaric country that she wondered how to reward him. It would be embarrassing and wrong to tip such an impressive stationmaster, who looked so sincere and dignified in his immaculate uniform, almost like some elderly general about to review his equally smart and elderly soldiers. If she were a man she could offer him a cigar, but then, he wouldn’t help a man in this way, so the situation would not arise. It was a quandary that stayed with her till the train began to move during the blast of the final whistle blown by the stationmaster as he leaned far out of the window.

  She ran along the platform, unable to mount the steps and get on the train. Drawing level with her compartment, she saw the stationmaster smile ecstatically as he threw his gold-braided cap over her head and as far as he could across the platform. He then unbuttoned his tunic, all set to relax on the long and easy ride to Nihilon City.

  Chapter 5

  Benjamin Smith laughed at having knocked the policeman down at the frontier, reflecting that it served the bastard right for tearing up his visa certificate – which he’d worked on for three days, a pure sweat of the forger’s art. The car droned softly and efficiently on, and at a level stretch across a mountain plateau a red Zap sports car came towards him on the same side, a crimson swift oval flattened on the blue-grey tarmac road. The Zap was far off at first, so that Benjamin thought it was going away from him, that it had appeared from some slip-road while his eyes had wandered, but the car grew and came close, the dare-devil inside dead-set on some vicious suicide game. Benjamin’s calculations speeded up rapidly, weighing his own heavy car as three times that of the Zap, but even so, the thought of entering a brick-wall competition didn’t appeal to him, since the smoke would be mutual if it came to a smash.

  He turned to the other side of the road, choosing safety, but the Zap thought otherwise, and Benjamin sweated at the sight of death coming up so quick. He almost stood on the brakes, and angled the car to the edge of the road he had originally been on, but it seemed as if the Zap was latched at him by some demonically tuned radio beam.

  At the last point of evasion he felt that something subtle yet deadly had been done to the camber of the road. It was as if the man in the Zap, having set on him from far away, had planned his tactics knowing that Benjamin would turn off for final safety at this section of the innocent-looking highway, because the heavy Thundercloud Estate car rumbled off it, descended a slope, turned completely over, then righted itself, shaking from side to side, and bouncing on its indestructible springs before settling down to silence.

  Benjamin opened his eyes, and reached into the glove-box for his revolver. He didn’t know whether he was hurt or not. For all he knew, and he felt it might be so, he could have broken a few limbs and been bleeding at a couple of internal places. But he sprang out of the car as if to murder the first animal or human being he came across, and crawled up the sandy embankment to the road. A smell of heat and pinecones came from sparse forest on the opposite side. He lay in the ditch and listened. The road was empty. A gentle wind turned the sweat cold on his face. He screamed out at the road, and fired a shot in the direction the Zap had taken, then smiled like a baby that was conscious of hearing for the first time, as he listened to the explosion, and its echoes breaking through each barrier of silence.

  Chapter 6

  A fortnight on the steamship Nihilon brought many mundane reflections to Edgar Salt’s mind as he paced the decks, or walked between rows of cabin doors listening to the victims of sea-sickness. A disturbing fact about this ship was that there were no lifeboats. At first he had been afraid, because the sea was rough, and the clean uncluttered flanks of the ship often brought to mind the possibility of being drowned. He asked a seaman about this deficiency, and the seaman exclaimed scornfully: ‘What do we want with lifeboats? Don’t you have any faith in the strength and seaworthiness of Nihilon’s ships? Our aim is to defeat the nature of the sea, and how can we be seen to do that if we cravenly steam across it festooned with old-fashioned lifeboats? None of our fine vessels have sunk yet, and don’t you dare insinuate that this is going to be the first, because it’s not.’

  As a geographer Edgar took sightings with his sextant and, aided by a chronometer and tables, plotted the ship’s position every few hours of the day. He pencilled its track on a chart in his cabin, and noted t
hat the same line, drawn in broad red pencil on the wallchart of the main saloon by the chief navigating officer for the benefit of the passengers, did not coincide with his own. He supposed they must have their reasons for this, though he thought that those passengers who believed the red pencil to be accurate were unfortunate, and even in many ways inferior to himself and those officers who knew that it was not so.

  He stopped an officer, to ask why the saloon chart was so much out of true. They talked urbanely, to the noise of people playing ball games in a nearby space, while sturdy green waves created a swell on which the new white ship laboured heavily. ‘It’s dishonest to deceive the passengers like this,’ Edgar said, his precise geographer’s mind hurt by such blatant deviation from the truth.

  The officer’s uniform was clean, his buttons polished, his shirt white and ironed. But he needed a shave: ‘You’re only honest when you can’t be anything else,’ he said, with a mechanical smile. ‘Honesty is the lowest form of self-expression. Since you’re going to Nihilon I’m telling you this for your own good, because you’ll need to keep it in mind, believe me. Honesty is a weapon. If you want to kill someone, never be anything but honest to them.’

  A huge wave beat up as far as where the lifeboats should have been. ‘We’re very philosophical on this ship,’ the officer went on, ‘and I hope we never meet a real storm, or go too close to a rocky coast! Honesty is an international conspiracy. It’s everywhere. It’s a haven for dogs who think only of their own safety. We in Nihilon have to stay united and fight it. We must never cease to be vigilant. Cronacia, our vile and diabolical neighbour, is forever preaching law, order, honesty, progress, but above all honesty, which shows how dead set she is to wipe us off the face of the earth. You see, if I want to insult you, I need only be honest. But to be honest in that way is a terrible and inhuman form of cowardice. Apart from that, it would be insulting to your intelligence, and to my self-esteem.’